BBC Sherlock: THRESHOLDS
by Wynsom
Summary: Set in the near future (with presumptions about Season 4) the Watsons share their euphoria after the birth of their baby girl with their Best Man/Best Friend. Would Sherlock have been able to value such human emotions without the critical thresholds he experienced in A Scandal in Belgravia? This is a look at select moments from ASiB that influenced Sherlock's emotional development.
1. Chapter 1

**_Set in the near future (with presumptions about Season 4) the Watsons share their euphoria after the birth of their baby girl with their Best Man/Best Friend. Would Sherlock have been able to value such human emotions without the critical thresholds he experienced in A Scandal in Belgravia? This is a look at select moments from ASiB that influenced Sherlock's emotional development._**

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_Newborn. _

_Squirming. _

_Pink skin. _

_Bow mouth relaxed after a big yawn. _

_Deep blue eyes wide open to the visual cues and colors…'O brave new world/that has such people in it.' And John Watson was holding her. _

Observing the proud father cradle his child in that first moment, Sherlock paused in the doorway of the private room in the maternity suite, a baby gift hidden behind his back. Something new and richer stirred within him.

Not to distract John from his paternal bonding with his offspring _(resulting from the natural surge of oxytocin),_ Sherlock leaned against the doorjamb and suppressed his own outbursts of greetings and praise for the new parents—momentarily he stood there as a quiet witness to human joy—and experienced a vicarious thrill.

_"__How are we feeling about that?"_ A memory echoed.

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There was a gentle cadence in John's voice when the doctor had asked Sherlock the same question years ago, for an entirely different matter. Irene Adler had **_faked_** her death, after all. _"So. She's alive then. How are we feeling about that?"_ The doctor's use of the psychoanalytic pronoun "we" did not go unnoticed.

Reluctant to admit it, Sherlock knew he was flawed by human emotions. It was not a shattering admission; rather, it was like observing the glaze of quality porcelain crazed with fine cracks. Some might criticize that they ruin the piece, others feel they lend character. Until then, he believed his sheer will and extraordinary intellect were enough to overcome distracting sentimentalism—the integrity of the glaze was strong and durable despite the hairline webbing.

However, the revelation on that New Year's Eve had awoken in Sherlock the solemn realization that human emotions were a doorway, not a piece of fine pottery, through which he was about to step. Disparaged for his "heartless character" throughout his life and work, the consulting detective remembered with total clarity that moment the door had flung open to an undeniable truth—not only did he care, he cared deeply, about people in his life.

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Cracks in his porcelain façade were partly John's fault—when a fondness grew between the arrogant detective and the invalidated army doctor at the onset of their partnership. The subsequent cases with John became lessons in tolerance and compassion, which too frequently the world's only consulting detective found harder to comprehend than the most challenging cases he worked.

Yet, the loyal doctor's witticism—sometimes light-hearted with comic relief, other times sharp and penetrating—was, in Sherlock's Holmes' estimation, one of his partner's greatest gifts (second only, in truth, to John's loyalty, manifested through his flattery, which Sherlock enjoyed beyond words). In fact, John's immense value, which Sherlock appreciated in the doctor's understated stings of sarcasm, facetious compliments, and occasional outbursts of fury, was transformative. Through humor, irony, and sarcasm, John summarized the truths that mattered most to the consulting detective; Sherlock found John, and his quick asides, indispensable for advancing his own deductive reasoning that helped him find answers. Whilst he was reluctant to let on, John was making him a better detective.

So, when Moriarty's threatened to "burn… the heart out of you!"…, it was the first time the reputed, "heartless" detective felt truly vulnerable.

_"__I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." _

_"__But we both know that's not quite true." _

**_Before_**, Sherlock hadn't cared **about** threats, because he hadn't cared **FOR** someone. In that defining moment, both he and Moriarty knew: John **_WAS _**his heart. When the exchange took place at pool side, Sherlock suspected that John Watson, due to his modest nature, might have been the only one present who didn't understand the full import of the threat.

"Caring" about John Watson, the consulting detective had come to realize, was more like a door ajar that cut a wedge of light within a dark room. Here was a glimmer of possibilities that Sherlock had not previously explored which both frightened and fascinated him. Was John making him a better man?

With the door now ajar, what else might enter?

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Fairy lights strung up for Christmas were just another childish tradition, but somehow necessary for Mrs. Hudson, even John, when they opened the flat for a small gathering to celebrate the holiday. Supercilious, Sherlock tolerated the fanfare because he actually liked the opportunity to show off his violin playing.

**Some** social _faux paus_ occurred when their company was mixed with alcohol…or when people _(other than John and Mrs. Hudson) _were mulling around the flat: confusing his lovelorn flatmate's girlfriends was not malicious. The women just weren't important to remember—especially the _"boring teacher.__" __(John sometimes had trouble as well; he was going through so many, so fast; so desperate he appeared for female company.)_ Squashing misconceptions about Harry drying out or the ongoing infidelity in Lestrade's troubled marriage was a kindness, really. They would have found out sooner or later.

_Still, these were hardly major, _Sherlock recalled _…until_…

Until, he targeted Molly Hooper—the unkindest cut —for which the "heartless" detective experienced great shame.

_"__It said on the door to just come up."_ She arrived overdressed for the casual occasion bearing wrapped presents, one particular gift fancier than the rest. Her overt giddiness triggered the consulting detective's harsh (he thought 'playful' at the time) deduction sequence: _"__new boyfriend," "seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."_ He just couldn't stop himself, despite John's warning _"Take the day off,"_ and Lestrade suggesting he _"Shut up and have a drink."_ Somehow they all knew before he did.

The embarrassment that followed was not that they read social cues he couldn't fathom, but that he had mortified the young woman—that he had caused her_ emotional_ pain. He hurt Molly Hooper—whom he realized in that instant, was someone he actually _cared _about. It was a shock! He had acted like a pre-adolescent boy—taunting the girl he liked; yet when it came to expressing sentimental feelings, in many ways he **_was _**pre-adolescent.

_"__You always say such horrible things. Every time. _Always_…..Always."_ Her truth, as she struggled to speak through her tears, illuminated his unforgivable rudeness and social cruelty—the door was creaking open, flooding darkness with more light.

He was horrified at himself and nearly turned away to seek escape. Except, he swallowed hard, and faced the trembly woman with deep humility and a sincere apology: _"I am sorry. Forgive me."_ Before he gently placed a tender kiss on her teary cheek, he expressed with genuine feeling, "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

That Sherlock exhibited an instinct for compassion he didn't realize he possessed even surprised John who, Sherlock noticed, seemed taken aback by the unexpected, _(perhaps_ _socially-appropriate?)_ restitution. Would it ever be sufficient? He would never know.

After his lips pulled away from Molly's remarkably soft cheek, he thought contritely, _John will have to show me how to make better amends for wronging my friends._

In the next moment, his phone emitted an orgasmic sigh.

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Vaguely, Sherlock heard John's mild distaste behind the doctor's comment "Fifty-seven of those texts – the ones I've **_heard_**," but the detective's thoughts were diverted to The Woman and the one-word text, plainly stating: "mantelpiece."

A dreaded silence enveloped the consulting detective as he pieced together the meaning of the small box on the mantelpiece, wrapped, as Molly had done, in the lipstick color of the giver. Ignoring John's questions, Sherlock excused himself from the room and retreated to his bedroom to open the package, already knowing, and somehow fearing, its contents.

With Irene Adler's camera phone in one hand, his phone in the other, he called Mycroft.

Quietly supportive, John followed his flatmate, pushed open the bedroom door that had been slightly ajar, and listened as Sherlock Holmes informed his brother that Irene Adler was dead.

_"__Are you okay?" _John asked from the doorway after the call ended_—_ as a good and caring friend would and should do.

_"__Yes."_ Clipped and detached, Sherlock deliberately shut the door on his friend and his emotions in one action. To his credit, John didn't hammer the solid wood barrier to be let back in. John_ UNDERSTOOD._ Yet it was unsettling to the indifferent detective who proudly scorned emotional attachments, who loudly denounced love for its blinding effect on the intellect. Needing to distance himself because he was**_ feeling_** emotions was untenable! What solid barrier could he raise to ward off invading sentiments, if rationale and logic had failed him?

The bigger questioned loomed: What and why was he feeling _anything_ for The Woman?

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Later in St. Bart's morgue, accompanied by Mycroft and Molly _(who was back on duty either because her Christmas had been ruined or because her help was needed?)_, he had identified the beaten body as the _Woman Who Beat Sherlock Holmes_. Hiding a sharp pang of loss, his mood succumbed to an inner darkness.

Doorways opened and closed: some in the morgue, some in his mind. He found himself in the corridor watching the soft snowfall through the window panes. Again, the hallway door opened. Mycroft approached him and offered him a cigarette. Between them, there were no words of consolation, just this one act of sympathy. Normally abstaining, Sherlock yielded to the temptation. At such a low point in his resolve, the younger Holmes did not **care** his older sibling would consider this a weakness on two counts; both that he accepted the cigarette and that he smoked it in his presence.

Standing side-by-side with his brother, Sherlock observed a grieving family in the reception area just beyond the morgue doors and tried to be cynical. He failed. _"Look at them. They all CARE so much…" _the emphasis on the word lacked his usually intense derision. _"Do you ever wonder if there is something wrong with us?"_

_"__All lives end. All hearts are broken."_ Sherlock rarely heard Mycroft sound so gentle. Not for long. The older Holmes concluded with a warning. _"Caring is not an advantage," _as he cut a glance sideways and finished with an authoritative tone: "_Sherlock."_

Exhaling disappointment, Sherlock recovered his boorishness to examine the fag and exclaimed with displeasure_, "This is LOW tar!" _

_"__Well,"_ Mycroft paused for effect. _"You barely knew her."_ So much said in five clever words. Sherlock grinned, a soft chuckle escaped, as he moved away.

_"__Merry Christmas, Mycroft,"_ the downcast detective strolled toward the exit alone, flicking ash on the floor. His brother's congenial reply _"and a Happy New Year,"_ reverberated in the corridor. Briefly another new door had opened, and just as quickly closed.

However, Sherlock felt neither merry nor happy, merely 'careless' as he left the hospital morgue in a taxicab. Was he careless enough to be self-destructive? Was this a danger night? There was a fog in his head making those answers unclear. If the temptation arose, he wasn't sure if he would resist.

Apparently his "friends" feared this as well. When he arrived back at 221B Baker Street and surveyed the flat from the threshold, he observed the changes caused by their _careless_ meddling: undoubtedly the dynamic Baker-Street Duo showed no consideration in restoring objects they had moved, dust they had disturbed, nor had they sense to replace his books as he had them arranged on the shelves. It was more than likely they weren't aware he deliberately placed each book, like music on a sheet, in a 'melody of positions' —some pushed forward on the shelf, others shoved back—creating a visual symphony only he could recognize as he looked at his collection. If one 'note' were wrong, he would know it.

Obviously, the living room _(and presumably every room?)_ had been hurriedly searched, nor was the flat empty as he had anticipated and somewhat hoped. John had NOT gone to his sister's. John was NOT out with the "boring teacher" celebrating Christmas. Instead, still wearing the silly, 'festive' Christmas jumper, John WAS quietly reading from his armchair feigning nonchalance as he greeted his returning flatmate in the doorway.

_"__Oh… Hi."_

Sherlock, seeing right through the rouse, remained silent.

_"__You okay?"_ John continued the charade of normalcy, despite Sherlock's blank stare and piercing eyes that seemed to be seeing everything, but signifying nothing.

Silence was what the consulting detective wanted that night, silence to be alone with his thoughts and to master some control over his rampant distress. Doors continued to close and open in his mind, contradictions swinging between annoyance that John thought he needed to stay close, and gratitude that John chose to stay close; offence that they needed to watch him for addiction and relief that they cared to watch him for addiction. Here, also there were no words of consolation, just more acts of kindness.

_"__Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time."_ Sherlock muttered without rancor as he exited through the kitchen, and firmly shut his bedroom door.

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It had been a week of stony silence, except for his music. On paper it was calculated and brilliantly mathematical. In translation on the violin, however, it revealed his struggle. He was haunted by the unresolved problems: the 4-digit phone code and the human element—The _enigmatic _Woman—who, by dying, stole answers he was seeking, even if some of his questions hadn't been completely formed. This grief over loss sounded like the _"Lovely tune," _Mrs. Hudson found disconcerting,_ "Haven't heard that one before,"_ and it prompted John to state the obvious. _"You composing?"_

_"__Helps me to think"_

_"__What are you thinking about?"_

John's question triggered a sudden insight and Sherlock exploded with an idea: _"The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five!"_

_"__Yeah, it's faulty. Can't seem to fix it."_ John shrugged.

_"__Faulty – or you've been hacked and it's a message."_ This was the first spark of excitement in nearly a week as the consulting detective quickly thumbed in the numeric digits "1895" to break Irene Adler's security code. Instead, the "I AM - LOCKED" screen beeped with the warning: "Wrong Passcode. 3 Attempts Remaining."

_"__Just faulty."_ Sherlock muttered deflated. Without further word, he turned away toward the window and resumed playing his violin—the dirge-like melody oppressing everyone within earshot.

Treading lightly about the flat all week, John and Mrs. Hudson didn't know what to make of him or his composition. The two of them spent inordinate time in conspiratorial whispering and murmurings about his lack of food consumption, his reticence, and his solitary concentration on his problem.

_They both had been warned. I play the violin when I'm thinking. I might go days on end without talking. These were __those__ days._

Keeping his voice even and pleasant, John at last made an announcement to the room in general, _"Right. Well, I'm going out for a bit."_ Implicit was _It's New Year's Eve for God's Sake_! _How long will this unhealthy withdrawal, this silent treatment last?_

Sherlock didn't really know how long it would take. He did know, however, that John felt helpless and it was wearing the good doctor down. Always a patient man, John's tolerance was growing thin, although he masked his frustration with a maddening compassion that compelled Sherlock to withdraw even more.

_I can't use anyone's help. I must work this out on my own. I need to shut out every distraction. _

Yet, Sherlock knew he would have to resolve his conflict soon before the door shut entirely and the last wedge of light was lost to all-consuming darkness.

_Am I driving John away? Will John go and not come back? _

Even so, the subdued detective remained unresponsive, playing lightly on the violin, but now listening harder as John and Mrs. Hudson conspired again in the threshold of the kitchen.

_"__Listen, has he ever had _any_kind of ..." _John was using his confidential tone, reserved for intimates, which Mrs. Hudson had become especially in this matter_, "… girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?_

Even the shrill timbre of Mrs. Hudson voice was softened with sympathy. _"I don't know."_

_"__How can _WE _not know?"_

_"__He's Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?" _

Mrs. Hudson's answered seemed to satisfy John who sighed then offered his usual sign off, _"Right, see ya,"_ as he bounded down the stairs.

When Mrs. Hudson left immediately after, Sherlock finally laid down his violin. He had thought enough.

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Right after he discovered the truth about the 'deceased' Irene Adler, doors flew open and closed, not just in his mind, but in his heart.

Sherlock was as surprised as John—well, maybe more so—when he heard HER voice greet his friend in the cavernous and abandoned _Battersea Power Station. _The echoing tone of the ensuing conversation was edgy. John was protective and The Woman defensive as they sparred over Sherlock's emotional well-being.

Rooted to the spot where he could safely eavesdrop, Sherlock listened to the sound of genuine loyalty as his one true friend angrily confronted The Woman:

_Tell him you're alive.  
>He'd come after me.<br>I'll come after you if you don't.  
>Mmm, I believe you.<br>You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you.  
>DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.<br>And I bet you know the record-keeper.  
>I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear.<br>Then how come I can see you, and _I _don't even want to?  
>Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help.<br>No.  
>It's for his own safety.<br>So's this. Tell him you're alive.  
>I can't.<br>Fine. I'll tell him, and I still won't help you._

The quiet fury of John Watson, undaunted by The Woman who had taken down many adversaries, was compelling to hear. Sherlock held his breath when he perceived her replies were salted by atonement.

_What do I say?  
>What do you normally say? You've texted him A LOT! <em>Enraged for his friend, the soldier had taken the offensive. _  
><em>_Just the usual stuff.  
>There is no 'usual' in this case.<br>_Irene was obviously reading from her phone:_ "__Good morning;" "I like your funny hat;" "I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner," ..._

Sherlock could imagine John cringing as she recited her taunting texts.

_"__You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch'. Let's have dinner;" "I'm not hungry, let's have dinner."_

John interrupted her, his incredulity fueled by great indignation._You ... flirted with Sherlock Holmes?!  
>At him. He never replies.<br>_The sound of unmistakable wrath drove every word in his reply._ No, Sherlock ALWAYS replies – to everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive GOD trying to have the last word._

_Does that make me special?_

_... I don't know. _**May**_be.  
>Are you jealous?<br>We're not a couple.  
>Yes you are. There ...<em>

Greatly distracted by the battle between them, Sherlock failed to anticipate what might be happening as he stood still as stone in the nearby corridor. His mind raced in dizzying circles, as his heart beat loudly. Complex reactions and a gamut of emotions about both John and Irene forced him to recognize how deeply he cared. It **mattered** that John bristled with defiance on his behalf. It also **mattered** that Irene seemed insecure, vulnerable, disadvantaged by forces of attraction she seemed unable to master despite her dominatrix reputation.

_"__I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."_

Sherlock shook his head free of tumultuous thoughts, wondering what he had missed as their conversation resumed. John was speaking again:  
><em>Who ... who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but – for the record – if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay.<br>Well, I am. Look at us both._

Sherlock heard John laughed softly at the irony just before the phone in his pocket betrayed him with a loud orgasmic sigh. _"__I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."_ Shutting it off, the confused genius sped away.

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The threshold was crossed as he fled.

It was undeniable. His single-minded "love" for the intellect-bending challenges in his work—_The Work_, was once the only reason he would fast, write music, barely talk… "except to yell at the telly." Now, love had expanded to include people and this love had acquired multifaceted dimensions as diverse as the people about whom he cared profoundly. He felt fierce allegiance, affection, warmth, friendship, and yes, even passion. Doors were opening, doors that had previously been locked, and he was helpless to keep them shut. Even worse, he was on the brink of losing control…

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Back at Baker Street, alarms sounded, not on the street, but in his head as he observed the unlocked front door— obvious signs of tampering. Easily it swung open with a light shove. On the interior door, he splayed his palm against the smoked glass and pushed. It too opened effortlessly. Alarms in his head screamed louder as he observed signs of Mrs. Hudson, interrupted in her chores, and he imagined, dragged up the stairs to his flat by assailants.

Mrs. Hudson in danger! The door flung wide at last. Unleashed rage drove Sherlock up the stairs and into his flat to deal with the operatives who dared to trespass— who dared to harm someone he loved. They were expecting the cool, composed detective to trade the camera phone for the hostage. They were no match for the genius wronged.

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Mrs. Hudson's rescue refocused the keen mind on what mattered— protecting the people at home, his home.

Once they were assured Mrs. Hudson was fine, the two men returned to their flat where John poured himself a drink and opened what he hoped would be a discussion. _"So. She's alive then." _ John rocked on his feet, pacing his words, as Sherlock tuned his violin. _ How are we feeling about that?"_

The question floated, like the first toll of Big Ben which sounded the hour from a great distance.

_"__Happy New Year, John." _

The emotional impact of Irene Adler's resurrection was not lost on John. He tried once more. "_Do you think you'll be seeing her again?" W_hen Sherlock began playing _"Auld Lang Syne" _John understood, gave his friend the requisite space, and hoped they both could let bygones be bygones.

Maybe she was not so "bye-gone" for the relieved man who privately gave his first reply to The intriguing Woman:

_Happy New Year_  
><em>SH<em>

The Woman felt first forgiven, then dangerously empowered.

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Six months later, the helpless Damsel appeared one more time, but Sherlock had regained control, keeping aloof and composed in her presence. Instead, she had become their "client," in need of assistance. Her chemistry seemed less effective on the indifferent detective, until she slyly threw down the challenge. _"__One of the best cryptographers in the country…"_ in compromising positions, she admitted, _"couldn't figure it out." _

With his rapid mind sorting the encrypted string of numbers, motion slowed, and all else faded.

"Go on. Impress a girl." Was the button that started the stopwatch of Sherlock's processing. Less than eight seconds later, he had the answer. "_There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true, but give me a moment; I've only been on the case for eight seconds."_

Whilst John looked stunned and Irene showed genuine amazement, her eyes afire with surprise, Sherlock dismissed them with a shake of his head_. "Oh, come on. It's not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look .." _and he explained in rapid-fire detail his thought process that led to his conclusion. Their continued silence was met with mitigated condescension._ "Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language."_

The answer won, Irene could have taken her leave as a satisfied client, but she didn't. She lingered. Poised to satisfy a personal curiosity about the consulting detective during John's absence from the flat, Irene exploited her talents of touch and insinuation to draw forth the burning heart of the dispassionate scientist. However, her titillating efforts at greater intimacy were frustrated when Sherlock was escorted away by 'suits' who worked for his brother.

In a plane of dead "passengers," Myrcoft met the younger Holmes to demonstrate the consequences of entanglements with The Woman. It was not a MOD official, the older man explained heatedly, but Sherlock's own naiveté and penchant for puzzles that toppled the top-secret plan. Terrorist cells were informed and the Coventry Conundrum exposed, all because the great detective fell prey to her wiles.

She had played him like a fiddle.

And soon, Irene Adler's impeccable appearance brought her where she wanted to be all along, at the negotiating table, parlaying with the political power in the older Holmes' home. Still smarting from her disdainful rebuff, Sherlock listened nearby from the armchair by the fire as she repeatedly whipped his brother and the British government with her strategic manipulations and her exorbitant demands. Fingers resting on his temple in thought, the played-out genius was haunted with silent regret at the harm he had caused.

Just when she was on top of her game, she made a serious mistake: _"I can't take all the credit. Had a bit of help. Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love."_

Eyes flickered, then narrowed, fingers recoiled from the place on his temple and curled into a fist. Sherlock's mind began to race.

_"__Thank God for the consultant criminal._ _Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. D'you know what he calls you?"_ She sat on the edge of the table with her legs crossed, her delicate frame emanating power. _ "The Ice Man, and…_" She paused, turning toward the younger man seated in the armchair, and finished wickedly, _"__the Virgin. Didn't even ask for anything. I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man."_

Something significant was formulating in the consulting detective's thoughts and he closed his eyes.

He heard defeat in Mycroft's reply. "_And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees. Nicely played." _

Sherlock's eyes suddenly opened with exhilarating clarity. They were alike. Through deception, she played with other's hearts, pretending to be heartless; he pretended to be heartless, flaying sentimentalism, but was ultimately deceiving himself. Alike, but still opposite, and opposites attracted. Her duplicity about her feelings was about to be her undoing.

"No!" Sherlock arose, objecting to her dominance, a new confidence instilling a masterful command which astonished Irene and Mycroft. He spurned her haughty pretense _"Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you?_" He saw through her verbal disdain, because he had witnessed her biochemistry—her elevated pulse, her dilated pupils —which through his seductive soft touch and whispering tones as he explained the facts of human biology, could not lie even now.

_"__I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive." _Sherlock picked up her camera phone and walked across the room. Instinctively, she followed, her body language already betraying her.

_"__When we first met," _Sherlock was in control of his voice, his mind and his heart. He had also become confident in the art of seduction, which he had learned from the best—from her,"_ you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you: the combination to your safe – your measurements; but this ..." _The coveted camera phone he flipped in the air, catching it in his warm hand, "_... this is far more intimate. This is your heart ..."_

Sherlock addressed her with the white heat of his intellectual power "_... and you should never let it rule your head." _Dominating her with his powerful stare, he slowly and precisely pressed the code, one punch at a time, into the phone, punctuating each statement with the correct sequence.

**S**

Eyes trapped by his gaze, Irene began to panic.

_"__You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for ..."_

**H**

_" ... but you just couldn't resist it, could you?"_

She was trying to catch her breath, her lungs heaving, as Sherlock's lips formed a victorious smile.

_"__I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage ..."_

**E**

_"Thank You__ for the final proof."_

Before he could supply the last character, she stopped his hand, her face beseeching, her words intimating deep affection in the softest whisper. "_Everything I said: it's not real. I was just playing the game."_

He refused to be fooled by emotion, whether real or imagined, and freed his hand. "I know," he said quietly and punched **R. ****_"_**_ And this is just losing."_

To be free of her, he had to show no concern for her future, despite her tears, her fears, and her plea that she would not survive without her protection. Taking her words and their truth into consideration, Sherlock gave her one final glance. _"__Sorry about dinner."_ A door opened in his heart. _No._ He actively opened the door and stepped through, leaving her to wonder in horror about her fate, when he closed it behind him.

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To be human meant to be flawed by emotions and to be plagued by their vagaries. Breaking Irene Adler's code was not a problem he could have solved in a vacuum, alone in his sterilized Mind Palace devoid of emotion. He realized if he hadn't allowed his emotions to read her social cues in the flat when they shared a new intimacy and again when he touched her wrist in Mycroft's home, he would not have_ literally_ felt __with such certainty the answer they needed. It was not a math puzzle after all, but a human enigma confusing love and matters of the heart with logic. In the end logic won, but the consulting detective stood on the threshold of a decision. Could he truly close and lock the door now that he had proof "love is a dangerous disadvantage," or would the lure of love's danger entice him to keep the door wide open and hazard the unpredictable challenges it might cause? John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, yes even Mycroft, and especially The Woman, were just the tantalizing beginning… and Sherlock loved challenges.

Triumphantly Sherlock had passed the dangerous threshold Irene Adler had presented— he had exceeded the magnitude and intensity of wild passion—and survived with his intellect and will intact. She had given him the "final proof" that unmanaged "sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." With great certainty, Sherlock knew there would never be another like The Woman in his life; nor would he be victimized ever again by besotted love. He had learned the meaning of love for his friends, devotion to his work, and control over emotions for The Woman.

And, when he loved, it would be HIS choice.

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_"__How are WE feeling about that?_" The echo from the past resounded in the present.

_We!_ A smile tugged the edges of Sherlock's lips as he listened to cooing sounds of his partner—enthralled by the presence of new life resting in the nook of his right elbow. John spoke softly in awe to the delicate infant wrapped in a hospital-issue baby blanket as he sat beside Mary's bed and clutched his tired wife's hand.

Reservations about disturbing this _Watson Tableau of a Domestic Milestone_ ran through Sherlock's mind, but the preoccupied new parents were expecting him. He had promised them he wouldn't leave. How could he say no when Mary was yowling in labor between rhythmic breathing. John's brow had been so creased with worry and concern that no words were necessary for Sherlock to know he must stay close by.

Yet, the consulting detective's tall figure in a long black coat immobilized in the doorway somehow escaped their notice until he hesitantly stepped forward into the room. Immediately the euphoric couple pulled him into their exhilarated banter of new parents on the verge of exhaustion after so many hours of labor.

"Oh, Sherlock? Come in! Come in! John, show Sherlock! Isn't she precious? Perfect! A miracle! Oh, such a treasure she is! Isn't she beautiful?" Mary's voice hit the soprano range as her spirits spiraled up.

John nodded, stammering "yes! yes! yes! yes! yes! yes!" with a broad grinned fixed permanently on his weary face. Yet, despite his fatigue, the smile originated from his eyes.

Exchanging well wishes and socially appropriate remarks, which Sherlock had rehearsed weeks before (filtered through the exact specifications of Molly Hooper), he then presented them with the flat, gift-wrapped box.

"Oh! What is it Sherlock?" Mary declared, her eyebrows raised as she shot a look at John.

"Isn't that the point of the wrapping it up? It's supposed to 'surprise' the recipient. Though it never works for me." Sherlock seemed puzzled and glanced over at John to see if he had made another social plunder.

"Ha. It's okay, Sherlock." John chuckled before returning his gaze to the baby he held. " A rhetorical question is a natural response.. People often ask that question when they receive a wrapped gift." He snapped his head up as if a thought struck him, and hesitated. "Just tell me it's not an eyeball or some kind of experiment you preserved in glass."

"John!" Both Mary and Sherlock objected simultaneously.

"Of course it isn't, right Sherlock?" Although Mary immediately took his side, she reserved some hesitation that mirrored her husband's.

"Open it." Sherlock smiled softly. "I had it made specially months ago…"

Mary quickly peeled off the wrapping, opened the lid and looked in the box. "Oh!" She seemed surprise at first. Tears welled in her eyes.

"What is it, Mary?" John eyes darted with concern between his wife's face and his friend's. His fears were allayed when he saw them both smiling.

"It's a magnifying glass…rattle…teething ring?!" She held up a delicately stemmed handle that was topped with a round plastic lens, covered in pliant teething material. The handle rattled lightly when shaken.

"Charming. Well done!" John laughed so hard, his body shook, tears streamed down his face and the baby woke. Quickly he rocked her back to sleep.

Assuming this was an overall good reaction, Sherlock smile broadly. "Thought had occurred. The next generation should learn as early as possible."

"Thank you, Sherlock!" Mary beckoned him to lean over her bedside, rewarding him with an affectionate kiss on his cheek. John continued laughing softly with a giddiness that spoke of too little sleep over too many hours.

Once the new parents calmed down at last, John cut a glance toward Mary, who nodded her assent. Gently rising so as not to wake her, John turned with his baby now in both arms toward his friend, his eyes shimmering. "Can you believe…this…this miracle? Here. D'y wanna hold her?"

Sherlock met his friend's gaze with equal pride and wonder. To be part of this pivotal moment, to be included and welcomed in the shared life of his dear friends…well he couldn't pinpoint how he was feeling, but if he could ever gush, this would be the time.

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A.N. While I do diligently review (over and over and over) Sherlock episodes to transcribe dialog (over which I claim no rights) from the BBC show, I shortened my labors immensely again, during the course of composing this fanfiction, thanks to the wonderful and brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am now greatly indebted.

_Your reviews sustain the writer in me. So. _How are WE feeling about THIS? __

_As always, thank you for all your support!_


	2. Through which John Sees Sherlock's Heart

**CHAPTER 2: THRESHOLDS Through Which John Sees Sherlock's Heart**

_A.N. For her wonderful insights, tremendous encouragement, and meticulous eye, I thank my Beta and friend, englishtutor, for all she has done to keep my muse alive!_

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**_"Any truth is better than indefinite doubt." (Sherlock Holmes) THE YELLOW FACE_**

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"Mary! John! Congratulations on the safe arrival of your newest family member! May parenthood be filled with lots of joy and wonderful memories. All the best!"

Fatigued to be sure, John blinked, uncertain he actually heard those words coming from Sherlock's mouth, in Sherlock's deep baritone voice. _Unbelievable!_ Lacking any undertones of selfishness, sarcasm, or patronizing sentimentalism, the greeting was so well spoken with authentic optimism and good wishes, that John stared, for a fleeting moment absolutely sure that the man who crossed the threshold of the hospital room was an imposter.

"…and WHAT a beautiful baby!" The tall man in the Belstaff continued as he leaned over the newborn nestled in the crook of John's arm.

_What? Beautiful? Hang on? Didn't he claim he was _'unaware of the beautiful ... and uncomprehending in the face of the happy!' _Where are the backhanded compliments and predictions? Like, I hope she won't be as prone to exaggeration as her father. Oh, I'm sure your pediatrician can advise you on ways to prevent chafing when she finally walks…? Should she have the skills of her mother, you will have to watch her closely…!_

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, John studied the fair face beneath curly raven locks, attuned his ear to the cadence and tempo of the man's voice, and met the piercing eyes that returned his gaze; the expression he saw in his Best Man's face—clarifying pride—caused John to suck in a breath. He had assumed wrong.

Sherlock was speaking _a truth_, John realized, maybe not his _own truth_, but close enough so that it felt as though the genius meant what he was saying, even if the sentimental word choices didn't ring true. Someone, probably Molly, coached him, John suspected.

So what if the words were suspiciously stilted and slightly rehearsed? It was obvious Sherlock was making every effort to demonstrate his newfound compassion, at least toward his closest friends. A consummate actor, the World's Only Consulting Detective was capable of pulling off those lines convincingly if he wanted to be truly disingenuous. Yet, giving the delivery just the right balance of awkwardness was his way of conveying to John that the truth—sharing in the Watson's joy—was just below the surface. Exhaling in relief, John beamed a warm smile at his friend. So, Sherlock _did feel things that way…._

It was reassuring. With all the past assumptions about Sherlock's emotional immaturity and woeful lack of social skills, whether he truly was a high-functioning sociopath or shared features on an autism spectrum, John felt both renewed and vindicated whenever he caught sight of his friend's heart.

That the brilliant intellect had a heart, God knows, was sometimes a hard thing to prove. Often, in the past, John had to confess, even he held doubts.

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Recognizing the tall man standing under a black umbrella raised against the drenching downpour, John halted with surprise. "You don't smoke?"

"I also don't frequent cafés," Mycroft answered, tossing his cigarette, swiftly collapsing his umbrella, and ducking into Speedy's cafe, leaving John no option but to follow. Certainly, this was not the usual, clandestine method for an arranged meeting; apparently there was a need to talk that brought the Mountain to Mohammed.

On the small table they shared, the older Holmes placed the wallet of a confidential file in plain sight between their two coffee mugs. It didn't require keen observation skills to notice. "That's the file on Irene Adler?"

"Closed, forever," Mycroft stated with finesse as he outlined his plan. "I am about to go and inform my brother – or, if _you_ prefer, you are –"

_Always, your brother's keeper__,_ John read between the lines.

"…that she somehow got herself into a witness protection scheme in America." Mycroft seemed pleased. "New name. New identity. She _will _survive – and THRIVE – but he will never see her again."

The news was hardly earthshaking. John devalued the importance of Irene Adler in Sherlock's life once the information from her camera phone had been recovered and she was removed as a threat, which, John figured quickly in his head, was about four months ago.

Besides, Sherlock had shut the door completely on that topic. Respecting his wishes, John allowed it to remain closed, especially as Sherlock showed no inclination for any discussion about the case. Instead, the consulting detective appeared cool, aloof, his usual self again as the detached scientist scrutinizing humanity's flaws under the microscope of his indifference.

With peace of mind regarding Sherlock's 'normal' behavior, John asserted with confidence. "Why would he care? He despised her at the end. Won't even mention her by name – just 'The Woman.'" Finalizing the point, John lifted his mug for a sip.

"Is that loathing? Or a salute?" It was a keen insight, which Mycroft had posed like a philosophical argument. "One of a kind; the ONE woman who matters."

"He's not like that. He doesn't feel things that way, I don't think…." John heard himself espousing the unrelenting opinions of associates from the Met whom he was beginning to believe. But Mycroft's questions resurrected John's original belief regarding Sherlock's emotional side; he couldn't deny having seen glimpses behind the arrogantly off-putting façade.

"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective." Mycroft was speaking in ordinary tones, not as a superior in intellect and rank, but as a perplexed brother. "What might we deduce about his heart?"

Although he presumed all business with The Woman was behind them, John was sensing he might have been making some false assumptions, overlooking important details, and admitted. "I don't know."

"Neither do I." Mycroft was very quick to reply. " ... but initially he wanted to be a pirate." Perhaps, it was a memory of his young brother in a pirate costume, but a slight, amused smile flitted across his face, replaced immediately by a distant, thoughtful look.

Surprised by Mycroft's "human" side, the doctor used the pause in their conversation to assure the worried big brother as he would any patient and family member distressed by a troubling, but not hopeless, diagnosis. "He'll be okay with this witness protection, never seeing her again. He'll be fine." The whole scenario, sitting for an ordinary chat with Mycroft in Speedy's café, sans cutting remarks and razor wit, lowered the army doctor's guard. John relaxed, content their meeting was nearly over, and generally impressed with himself for providing solace to the Ice Man.

"I agree." After a deep breath, Mycroft's attitude and demeanor shifted with a chilling blast. "That's why I decided to _tell_ him that."

Sitting opposite one of the greatest masterminds in the British Government, John stiffened with the realization he had been manipulated. "Instead of what?"

"She's dead." The Bureaucrat Holmes had returned with his frosty tone. His eyes bore into John's, monitoring the doctor's reaction. "She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi two months ago and beheaded."

The news struck John harder than he expected. With a sinking feeling about how this truth might impact his friend, John took several seconds to compose himself, fidgeting in his seat as if he needed to control his body from exploding into action. Finally, clearing his throat softly, he recovered his voice. "It's definitely her? She's done this before." The thought greatly irritated him; his eyes flashed with anger.

"I was thorough – this time." Mycroft was smug with confidence, though not actually pleased. "It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me, and I don't think he was on hand, do you?"

Overrun by strong emotions, the doctor swallowed but held his reply.

"So ..." Using only his fingertips, as if it were too hot to handle, Mycroft slid the confidential file across the tabletop toward John.

John's eyes were drawn to the clear plastic wallet. His heart was heavy, his nerves rattled. He suddenly felt as though he were preparing for battle. Sighing, he raised his eyes to meet Mycroft. Even before a question was formed by the elder Holmes, John Watson already knew what was expected, he knew his duty to his partner, and most importantly he understood why Mycroft was handing him the assignment. Mycroft believed _only_ John could read Sherlock's emotional well-being. If that were true, John had already let Sherlock down for quite a while—perhaps since New Year's Eve. _"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind?"_ The violin asked as the detective played _Auld Lang Syne_. The answer—John had interpreted from the solitary look Sherlock shared before turning his back to finish the melody— was a resounding "yes!"

How wrong he was! Now with his eyes opened, he saw a truth, a truth that was staring him in the face all these months. A truth, clouded by assumptions he had made about Sherlock's unfeeling heart. Ashamed by his own blindness, John did not feel up to the task.

"...what should we tell Sherlock?" It may have been spoken with Mycroft's voice, but it reverberated in John's heart.

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It had been an unsettling visit with Mycroft—not in the usual way—for the tone and texture smacked not of derision and disdain, but concern, filial concern, that compelled John to reevaluate his perceptions of both Holmes brothers.

_"Any truth is better than indefinite doubt,"_ Sherlock had once remarked. John had heard him speak those words to their client, Grant Munro, as they were about to discover the occupants of a small cottage at Norbury. However, the consulting detective had erred in his deduction about whom they would find (this was the _only_ case in their first months together when Sherlock had missed the mark). Although the truth was indeed far better than the doubt, the case had had a successful outcome for everyone except the disappointed consulting detective. Chagrined, Sherlock had kept a sullen silence on the trip home, and even hours later in their flat. Having adapted to his flatmate's moods, John knew better than to try drawing him out. So it was unexpected that just as the doctor was about to retire for the night, Sherlock finally spoke. _"John, if it should ever strike you that I am getting a little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you."_

Sherlock wanted, no TRUSTED, John to give him the truth. Ever since then, John had made it his duty.

Ah, but ANY Truth? That was the question. Give him THE truth or Mycroft's truth? Would Any truth suffice? When does it become a lie…?

The doctor was at a standstill, uncertain, mulling thoughts as he hesitated at the black lacquered door of his flat. He was glad the heavy rain had slowed to a drizzle. It allowed him time to linger on the doorstep. Looking down one more time at the large wallet that contained the confidential government file on Irene Adler, John empathized with the inanimate clear plastic that concealed neither its contents nor the infamous camera phone. As he was faced with the unpleasant task of delivering news, John didn't know if he would be able to conceal anything from Sherlock, nor whether he should try.

Was the solitary man starved for love? Did the tortured genius not just need an audience, but a destiny, a soulmate who could match wits with him? Someone who would teach him passionate love? Was The Woman that soulmate?

_"Are you jealous?" She had asked. _

_"We're not a couple." He had protested._

_"Yes, you are." She had insisted._

When it came to caring, it was difficult to tell where the truth lay between the self-professed High Functioning Sociopath and the Dominatrix. Confused, John shook his head clear of the unimaginable. Maybe he had looked the other way all these months because he _was _jealous of losing his friend to someone who greatly surpassed ordinary intelligence, who was irresistibly alluring, and unpredictably dangerous— a good match for the exceptional prodigy who craved excitement and challenges to keep his "sanity," whatever that might be. It didn't matter now. She was dead. There would be no other.

_"How are WE feeling about that?"_ John remembered asking his stunned friend when they had discovered she was alive.

_"Happy New Year, John." _

Perhaps, he was _happy_ in his own way knowing she was alive. So, then how would Sherlock _feel_ now that she was dead?

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"Clearly you've got news." The composed voice greeted him before John reached the top of the stairs and appeared in the kitchen doorway.

_Jeezus, Sherlock! How am I going to get through this if you can deduce by my gait and footsteps that I am bearing news? Dunno! Y' probably know already _WHAT_ news!_

"If it's about the Leeds triple murder," the detective stated flatly, as he continued viewing slides through his microscope, "it was the gardener. Nobody noticed the earring." The scientist adjusted the microscope's course focus without looking up from where he sat at the kitchen table.

"Hi. Erm, no, it's, um …." Relieved but self-conscious, John slowly stepped forward, swinging the wallet with the camera phone in view under his right arm. Hesitating how to proceed, the doctor approached the table, but cast his glance away and down when he added. "...it's about Irene Adler."

There was no intake of breath, just absolute stillness. The extended pause screamed with emotion, John realized, as he kept his eyes averted, listening for his friend's reaction. He was afraid if he looked up then, Sherlock's face would show the misguided doctor how wrong he had been about the "heartless" sleuth.

"Ah?" The briefest of sounds preceded another long pause, followed by a clipped, "Something happened? Has she come back?"

"No. No." Shaking his head, John still couldn't raise his eyes. "She's erm…." _Get a grip! You must look at him or he'll know you're lying, John! _"... I just bumped into Mycroft downstairs." One true statement helped him lift a fleeting, yet unsustainable, glance. The vision of Sherlock sitting upright at the table, his face open with peaked interest, was painful to see. Eyes cast downward again, John continued with a suggestive tilt of his head and used the file tucked under his arm to point toward the stairs. "He had to take a call." John wheezed an inhale to cover up the truth sandwiched between untruths. Mycroft wasn't taking a call.

"Is she back in London?" Sherlock rose quickly and rounded the table toward John.

"No…." he clutched the wallet tighter under his arm.

Sherlock drew close, nearly face-to-face with the friend he trusted, and locked a penetrating gaze on the doctor. Curiosity, eagerness, hope, expectation, promise…so many emotions John hadn't recognized before played across the alabaster complexion of his vulnerable friend, whilst the fathomless depths in the piercing pale grey eyes caused John to stammer.

"She's, erm…."

His own eyes darted downward, shifted sideways, looked up in another direction—the evasive dance that bespeaks a liar—no one would have been fooled, especially not Sherlock, but John would try his best.

A great inhale—_whoosh!_ —helped the doctor raise his own shoulders, open his eyes wide, and meet the scrutiny of the glaring detective who now had stepped closer, into John's intimate, personal space, awaiting the answer. John was still ambivalent about what to say.

_First, do no harm!_

"She's in America!" Eyes continuing to dart to and fro, John couldn't believe what he was saying. This was _not _how he handled bad news with a patient; he was bound by his oath to give the truth, kindly, carefully, but honestly. Yet, for this man he cared about, John was finding it easier to maintain the lie—Mycroft's TRUTH. It was a flimsy plan at best. Maybe, he could use this as a test to determine his friend's reaction? The doctor didn't know what he hoped to learn, but he would rely on instinct to guide him.

"America?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his voice lightened by surprise.

Encouraged, although still unable to keep his eyes from darting about, John continued. "Ahh-hmm. Got herself on a witness protection scheme…." His tongue poked at the inside of his cheek.

The tabletop, the microscope and vials, even Sherlock's dark, charcoal gray shirt took turns shifting into John's view until he landed on the word "…apparently," and in that moment, caught the look on Sherlock's puzzled face. Eyes took a dive again at "Dunno how she swung it," yet managed to raise his focus one more time when he finished, "but, erm," clenching lips briefly as he shrugged, "well, you know." Then both his voice and eyes sank all together.

"I know what?" The familiar impatience in Sherlock's tone indicated the need for data not innuendo.

"Well, you won't be able to see her again." Finally, John looked directly at his friend when he spoke the undeniable truth.

"Why would I want to see her again?" Dismissively, Sherlock turned away, retreating back around the table.

"Didn't say you did." John chuckled sadly, relieved and amazed he had succeeded in selling the lie.

"Is that her file?" Slowly Sherlock reached his chair, but hesitated over his seat at the table.

"Yes. I was just gonna take it back to Mycroft." Lifting the clear wallet, John gestured. "Do you want to ...?"

The abruptness with which the scientist sat was matched by the tone in his answer: "No." Inhaling, he resumed viewing the slides in the microscope without looking up.

Previously, John would have interpreted his flatmate's return to The Work as a clear sign of Sherlock's indifference. Had John continued with that premise, he would also have assumed that the news—'The Woman was dead'—had no significant impact, becoming just another file tucked away in his Mind Palace, to be discarded later when it was of no further use.

"Hmmmm." As the doctor watched his subdued friend peer through the ocular lenses, the doorway to an understanding swung wide open—Sherlock WAS _lonely!_

Perhaps, it was partly the choice he made for his genius, but the extraordinary man was isolated by his astonishing brilliance, ostracized for his innate superiority, and exiled for his arrogant hubris. Yet beneath it all, beat a quivering heart that wanted to belong, needed recognition, and yearned for love. Only now did John finally realize Sherlock was no different than the rest of humankind, even though he scoffed at sentimentalism as weakness. He wanted love, he wanted respect, and he wanted to feel that others cared for him.

That so-called unfeeling heart was actually a defense against the cruelty of others who could not see anything but a "freak;" they derided the cold statistician, the impartial, possibly "mad" scientist who saw specimens and experiments in the deceased rather than victims of outrageous collateral damage brought on by man's inhumanity to man. Yet, the consulting detective was not _the _real monster, nor _the_ actual destroyer of life, even if he seemed more interested when it became lifeless.

Maybe, to some he was a monster, but in fact, he was a creature of habitual study, observing minutiae with amazing vision, finding discoveries derived from grotesque sources that actually contributed to the betterment of science, helped law enforcement solve crimes, and perhaps even answered some medical riddles.

Why did such a great man choose loneliness? His vision, his hearing, his sense of smell, his synaptic connections, everything about him demonstrated extraordinary sensitivity; was his emotional sensitivity similar? Did something in his past cause him to shut down all sentiments? Psychologists recognize that childhood rejection could have lasting, detrimental effects. Or did Sherlock choose to keep his mind _purely_ over matter—to remain celibate from distracting matters of the heart? To be celibate didn't mean the incapacity to love, it just took enormous self-restraint to prevent it from straying into distracting lust.

Is this why he did not cultivate a following? He certainly exuded charisma when he chose to turn it on. John had noticed women respond to the lean detective's handsome bearing. The dark curly hair, the raised collar, the riveting eyes, the deep voice seemed irresistible, until he spoke with ridicule and harsh truths, spurning further interest. Even sweet, adoring Molly would someday have to realize she was no equal if she kept him on a pedestal of romantic desire. He didn't want that.

Still, this genius deserved love! So was The Woman the first to measure up to his level of intensity? Maybe, but she played him. She used love as a whip to force submission. She went too far… and she hurt him...she had exceeded his threshold for tolerating this kind of pain.

When Sherlock loved—and John realized he was privy to that side of the man—it was a mindful love. The scientist was choosing the people he wanted in his life: Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, Mycroft, even an invalidated soldier. He controlled who could get closer to him, who could see him as he really was, and past that, if they continued to love him despite all his faults, he would love them back with the same passionate intensity as he devoted to his work.

John knew for certain now Sherlock had a heart, a very private heart that was touched by a select few. Despite his self-control, The Woman left her indelible mark there too. Just now, her name was like a gravitational force that pulled the consulting detective off his regular course: he stood up, stepped away from his research, and took orbit around the information John professed to have, before finally breaking free back to his own pursuits once again.

A fierce affection tugged at John's own heart as he realized his melancholy friend had been struggling silently and alone to recover from this "broken heart" since Christmas. How could John have missed the unmistakable body language of the scientist/ philosopher/detective whose passion for The Work had been pirated away by The Woman.

It was not indifference, but herculean self-discipline and deep resolve that kept Sherlock from tearing the file from John's arms and pouring over its contents—on the outside chance the Met could have one more piece of information Sherlock had not already deduced about her.

Now that she was dead, could he get over her? Perhaps, but _only _if he knew she was dead.

"Listen, actually ...," John began, deciding Sherlock deserved and wanted complete honesty.

"Oh, but I will have the camera phone, though." Interrupting, Sherlock must have felt John's sympathetic eyes on him for the duration of the doctor's thoughts, but he did not remove his own from the microscope, even when he held out his hand for the camera phone.

Puzzled and perplexed John protested looking at the device through the plastic wallet. "There's nothing on it anymore. It's been stripped."

"I know, but I ...," The consulting detective gave no explanation why he wanted it, although one seemed imminent, until after a pause, during which his extended hand motioned imploringly, he merely trusted John would understand." ... I'll still have it."

"I've gotta give this back to Mycroft. You can't keep it." Deep down John did understand, even while objecting with a shake of his head.

No frustrated tirade, nor angry insults, nor overbearing arguments ensued. With his eyes still glued to the microscope, Sherlock quietly and persistently kept his hand extended, palm upturned, to receive the camera phone, as if it were his right, as though it belonged to him, and that it was his personal possession.

"Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft." John tried reason, masking a pang of sorrow with an open but gentle opposition. "It's the government's now. I couldn't even give ..."

"Please." For a man who never begged, Sherlock had a quiet way with one simple word, spoken softly. However, it was his hand, extending expectantly that made the convincing argument. John was no match for the deep-seated emotion that gave rise to the request.

Moved, John stared at the hand, wishing Sherlock would lift his eyes from the ocular lenses and connect with him, at least this once.

Instead, eyes remained averted; Sherlock did not intend to expose his heart.

Having misread him for so many months, the doctor could not blame his friend for keeping his innermost feelings private.

Even so, it was no secret now. Frowning about breaching protocol, John did as he friend asked. Retrieving the phone from the wallet, he kindly placed it in Sherlock's palm. Slowly Sherlock curled his grip over the phone. It was a tender gesture John did not fail to notice. Still, without raising his eyes from the lenses, Sherlock pocketed the phone.

As his hand returned to the fine focus on the microscope, the consulting detective replied impassively, "Thank you." The emotional depth from which those two words arose was tell-tale.

The profound revelation stunned John, who hesitated awkwardly, "Well, I'd better take this back." He pointed with the wallet, now without the camera phone, to which Sherlock succinctly answered, "Yes."

John crossed the threshold toward the stairs, silently reexamining his flawed decision to "do no harm" by injecting an untruth about Irene Adler's fate. Even more perplexing: could Sherlock have actually swallowed the story—this less bitter pill—no questions, no asides, no criticisms? Wasn't this complete and utter denial?

Pausing on the landing, John turned around with several nagging thoughts. "Did she ever text you again after…," he tilted his head, "…all that?"

"Once, a few months ago," Sherlock muttered.

A vague recollection about visiting Harry, about making a side-trip at Sherlock's request to pick up some documents for a bothersome case, about being detained for an extra day or two…due to some miscommunication and confusion about the location… wasn't that a few months ago? John wondered if his own emotional distress was muddling his memory .

"What did she say?"

Focused on the slide, the consulting detective answered remotely, "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

"Huh." Feeling worse than before, John hovered briefly within the kitchen door. He had lied to his friend who expected the truth and he had made assumptions about Sherlock that were equally false. How blind they both had been: John for not seeing Sherlock's heart, and Sherlock, who seemed unwilling to give more "pains to the case" about Irene Adler's fate than it deserved. Would it be too cruel to whisper "Norbury?"

Pacing in one last circle of indecision, John opened his mouth, but nothing came out: not a sigh, not a sound, not a whisper. Finally, he descended the stairs, news delivered as Mycroft decided, feeling quite discomforted by twisting the truth to obliterate doubt.

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During the course of composing this fanfiction, I acknowledge the great assistance of the wonderful and brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan.


	3. Chapter 3: Thresholds of Forgiveness

**Chapter 3 THRESHOLDS…of Forgiveness**

**_Still celebrating the joyous moments in the maternity suite with their new baby, Mary is gratified for the loving compassion of her dearest husband, John, and the most forgiving heart she had ever encountered—that of Sherlock Holmes. _**

_A.N. Some 'Easter eggs' of Canon Sherlock Holmes quotes can be found within this story, sometimes modified, sometimes left exactly as originally quoted. For the sake of reading fluency, I did not highlight them in any way. I hope it is enough, however, that I shamelessly admit to borrowing from the Master/Creators who conceived these characters in print and on the screen. Of course, I claim no rights to them._

_Once again, I must express my great thanks to a wonderful Beta and friend, englishtutor, who is an indispensable guide on so many levels._

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The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.

**Mahatma Gandhi**

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Cradling their newborn in his arms, John sought Mary's assent with a lift of his brow. His deep blue eyes searched hers with an unspoken question.

How could she refuse him? How could anyone? With her own eyes christened by tears, she nodded, matching the love she witnessed with a tender, dimpled smile.

Gently rising so as not to wake their daughter, John turned with his baby now in both arms toward Sherlock, his eyes shimmering. "Can you believe…this…this miracle? Here. D'y wanna hold her?"

Uncertain what to expect next, the couple viewed Sherlock's reaction with fascination.

As if called to attention, Sherlock perfected his normally statuesque posture. Gracefully he rounded his long arms, slightly bent the elbows, and held his hands out front, almost touching. "Show me how to do it correctly," he bowed his head in deference.

_Ballet: arms in first position_…. The thought leapt into Mary's mind.

John chuckled good-naturedly as he looked up to the tower of stately grace where, seconds before, his friend had been. Upon meeting the consulting detective's beseeching eyes—eyes that showed a willingness to face the unknown, to_ learn_ human _nurturing_—John felt a lump in his throat, a fierce love for his friend intensified by pathos.

Visibly moved, John quickly redirected his gaze to the sleeping newborn, for whom paternal affection was expected, and deepened his voice, "First you have to relax."

"_That_ may _never_ be possible," maintained the impassive baritone.

Anxiously, John's eyes shot up. _Was this asking too much of a man with an inability to connect with people? Would holding a baby be overstimulating, an affront, an overload of his exceptional sensibilities? _As John studied with concern the emotionless face that stared back at him, he was inexplicably caught by the intensity and depth of those commanding, luminous eyes. Slowly, the new father saw a subtle metamorphosis: genuine affection transformed the tall man's pale cheeks with a blush of color, his eyes crinkled in a gentle smile, and he gave the surprised John a playful, Holmesian wink.

_John falls for Sherlock's teasing every time!_ Mary observed with amused delight, always entertained by how the two friends interacted. Loving every moment of this adventure into uncharted regions of Sherlock's heart, Mary kept silent as she watched John direct his friend on the proper way to support a newborn's head and neck, and successfully guide the consulting detective's arm into the classic cradle hold. It was amusing to see how the detective's overbearing manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its teacher.

"There!" John stepped back, throwing his palms in the air with satisfaction. "It's simple."

Far longer than either Mary or John expected, Sherlock kept his head bowed, staring at the tiny form swaddled in a blue-and-white hospital blanket, nestled in the crook of his arm. His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he seemed glad—an emotion the Watsons saw on the rarest occasions. No word was spoken, but with a kindly eye toward the new parents, he nodded his approval and looked once more at the sleeping babe.

Both John and Mary exhaled with relief, unaware they each had been holding their breaths until they received the detective's favorable acknowledgement. Exchanging amused glances, the couple wondered in silent synchrony what the Great Sherlock Holmes might deduce from the life that was merely hours old.

As more moments of silence elapsed, the Watsons began to worry.

Finally, they heard him gently clear his throat. _(Or was he recovering his voice?)_ "I have to disagree with you, John."

_Mr. Punchline is about to trump the "last word" on the matter_, John realized as he spied the sly grin playing across Sherlock lips.

"It's NOT simple, my dear friends." Sherlock's uplifted face revealed a profound understanding of the softer passions, "There is nothing like first-hand evidence! A most extraordinary experience is this. It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the _most important._ However, observing life in its earliest stages is not only illuminating, it is mesmerizing. I must thank you for this opportunity. Such a range of pleasant emotions plays through the mind and heart, stimulating the senses of sight, sound, smell, and touch. It is no wonder that both women and men address infants in high-pitched sounds. The urge is quite hard to control. Even I feel my pulse quickening with rare sentiments! All this is accomplished by _this_ most important little thing in one's arms."

Sherlock bent forward and whispered over the capped head of the slumbering newborn in a slightly higher pitch than his normal baritone, "What a man and woman can 'create' in love, another can discover within a cherished friendship." He kissed the cap softly and smiled. "Little Discovery, know that you are the most important thing in the lives of your dear parents _and_ this truest friend."

Hearing those words, Mary reached for John's hand, her eyes swimming in tears. With his free hand, John was palming his eyes quickly, knowing full well that when the detective looked at them again, he would see two overly emotional new parents beaming with heartfelt gratification.

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We can't command our love, but we can our actions.

Arthur Conan Doyle

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Mary Watson counted herself extremely fortunate. Her heart ached to think about it. She knew full well the meaning of ephemeral. She took nothing for granted: not her identity; not her life; not their miraculous child; especially not this moment of complete happiness; nor the extraordinary bond between her husband and his best friend.

That she was present to participate in this moment of joy was due to the most forgiving heart she had ever encountered—that of Sherlock Holmes.

She and John both knew Sherlock held the capacity for great love. The more John observed Sherlock, the more amazed the doctor seemed by the underlying tenderness the detective reserved for his closest friends. How he manifested it was usually the puzzle, but that he commanded profound affection was no longer a mystery.

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_Once you've worked you way into his heart, you're there forever. No matter what. _

John had told Mary this once in a passing reference about someone named Irene Adler. Yet, he stopped short of explaining how this applied to Sherlock. While her then-fiancée was not given to disclosing personal secrets about his former flatmate, Mary gathered, from snippets here and there, that John had discovered something that Sherlock didn't know he knew, and it had to do with this woman.

During their engagement, Mary's curiosity had been fed by occasional, vague references, sometimes between John and Greg who, she learned from their conversation, hadn't been involved in the case. As she was certainly one to appreciate that a sordid past should remain buried, she had never dug up the topic for discussion with anyone.

So it had been a chance-accident, sorting through the household bills and getting the upcoming wedding finances in order, that she had discovered a printed file wedged in the back of John's desk drawer in the study of the home they shared. As Providence would have it, John was at surgery when she made this discovery, and Mary accepted it as a sign of the approving Fates.

With only the slightest shame, she read the file about _The Woman_, Irene Adler. From the dates on the file, John's notes were compiled several years after the event, apparently when Sherlock was lost to him. He was struggling to deal with tremendous despair over his friend's untimely death by piecing together elements missing from the complex puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. As she read through his comments she detected great melancholy and deep mourning in his words, enough to bring her to tears, but not enough to stop her from reading to the end. The most telling information was in John's conclusion.

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><p><em>As I suspected, Irene Adler LIVES, not in Mycroft's imaginary truth fabricated to keep his brother from spiraling into addictions, but in the REAL truth. Sherlock, I found your clever pseudonyms in the manifests to Jinnah International Airport, Karachi! You were there when The Woman was supposedly beheaded. Mycroft didn't know. You fooled him.<em>

_You fooled me, too, I realize now. During that time I was on a wild goose chase, crafted by a certain someone to get me swiftly out of town: first, to visit Harry, who wasn't expecting me. (That was a horrible encounter.) I should have suspected something was amiss with the invite. Then to pick up those official writs for a case you claimed was urgent, but again, the confusion cost me days on the road. _

_So you were there! Leave it to you to risk everything to rescue her. You stood by her when she was in greatest need—loyal to a fault. Sherlock, did you know this was love? Did you realize that saving one's friend is one of the most noble kinds of love? _

_Why? Why? Didn't she break your heart? Obviously, she was your first infatuation (we never really get over those). So, when it came to love, your heart was no different than the rest of ours. But after a while, when someone is lost forever, we move on to survive…like I must do now, with you. _

_When it came to The Woman, you didn't move on. You stayed connected. Amazing! Although she used you, although she lost The Game, you loved her anyway in your unique way. She was your mental equal. She stimulated you as no one else could. You actually fell for her. Maybe after all, there could have been something between you both, but she played with your genuine emotions to gain power in The Game, and so you ended her game. _

_And everyone who knows you, really knows you, knows that the real Sherlock Holmes wouldn't toy with his private feelings, especially for the select, precious few who matter most to him. Such a rare commodity should not have been trifled with._

_Until then, I always thought you were the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world had ever seen. You wouldn't let any sentiment taint your intellectual powers. For you, grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of your high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion. How often you claimed to spurn our ordinary feelings as too distracting. As I came to know you, I admired how you used that incredible brain of yours to control whatever you might really be feeling, keeping sentiment from blinding your deductive powers. (That is why I am so confused and angry. What happened on St. Bart's rooftop that blinded your reason and forced you to give in to the overpowering weakness of despair?)_

_Well, Sherlock, I guess I understand now about Irene Adler. We may not be able to _command_ our heart, but we can _control _our actions. And that was how you could still love The Woman, but not be ruled by her._

_I knew you were not reacting properly when I told you Mycroft's ridiculous lie; that she was in the American witness protection scheme. I was so transparent. You didn't grill me with questions. You didn't accuse me of lying, which you must have seen so clearly. Still, you didn't share what you knew with me, either. Because…why? Sherlock, did you find this secret love too difficult to express to your friend? Or did you feel I wouldn't understand?_

_So you rescued her, you bastard! You can't give up on the people in your heart. Extreme in everything you do, when you love, you love unconditionally. Did you expect her to return the favor when you were on that rooftop? If she really loved you back, shouldn't she have? Maybe saving you was not possible for anyone. Look how much I …yes, damn it, I admit I loved you, and still I failed you. I didn't stop you from dying._

_I have no desire to find The Woman and tell her you're dead. I'm sure, wherever she is, she knows. I hope she is suffering like I am._

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><p>Closing the drawer, Mary quickly tucked her raw emotions and newfound knowledge away. The anguish of her lover's desolation over the loss of his best friend and Sherlock's unique form of loyalty had given her useful information she would keep close to her heart. <em>It was always wise to understand the motives of the people you love. <em>

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_Once you've worked you way into his heart, you're there forever. No matter what. _This had to be true_._ It was the only explanation for Sherlock's forgiveness.

Whilst Mary Morstan took an instant liking to the resurrected Sherlock, it didn't take long to perceive Sherlock reciprocated. Mary's quick wit and retentive memory impressed the genius who recognized in John's fiancée someone with talent and potential for detective work as well. Even so, John provided mutual ground, to which neither claimed territorial priorities, sparing John the need to choose. In truth, each had an exclusive part of John's heart, but it wasn't hard for Mary to accept and care genuinely for her fiancé's best friend—to acquire a strong friendship apart from John. Within a short time, Mary and Sherlock's rapport had its own character, its own playful life, and affinity of spirit. Mary found it no trouble at all to embrace Sherlock with all his quirky behaviors that defined him, to accept him on his terms just as John had done.

Sherlock embraced her back, how deeply she never suspected.

Indeed, it was extremely fortunate that she had stepped through the doorway of his affection on her own account and into the loyal heart of Sherlock Holmes or her fate would have taken quite a different turn. Months after the wedding, she made an unforgiveable and near-fatal mistake—A.G.R.A. shot Sherlock—it was NOT premeditated. Nonetheless, it had jeopardized everything: Mary Watson's happy marriage, John's love, and most importantly, Sherlock's life.

Incredibly, Sherlock forgave Mary like he forgave The Woman, perhaps he forgave Janine as well—not that he wouldn't remember what they each had done to him (although Janine had some cause). Yet, Sherlock's forgiveness was very different from anything Mary had experienced before because he understood human frailty from a unique perspective. Who better than a man perceived as engaging in socially isolating and risky behaviors, going to extremes to alienate whatever society he might frequent, and appearing quite unconcerned by his obnoxious display of intellectual superiority would understand the need for forgiveness? Not until John's gentle intervention taught him how to integrate with humanity was Sherlock truly aware how caustic his candor and intellect were to others.

For Sherlock, it was better to forgive than to ask forgiveness, although he rarely requested clemency from anyone other than John. Mary Watson knew her husband granted forgiveness because he was goodhearted and compassionate, but he did not _understand_ it the way Sherlock did. It took a fellow 'trespasser' to understand, and A.G.R.A. was awed by the magnanimity of the detective's noble spirit.

_No matter what!_ Ironically, the select group of women whom he let into his heart—except for Molly Hooper—almost destroyed it: The Woman broke his heart, Mary's A.G.R.A. nearly stopped it with a bullet, and Janine traded on it with scandalous publicity, a woman scorned taking revenge for profits. Their foolish actions nearly pierced the "heartless" man who showed great strength of heart by forgiving them all.

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In the hospital suite, all the excitement was simply exhausting. It had been a tumultuous 36 hours for the Watsons, that had included an underground derailment and rescue*, sudden labor, and giving birth. No wonder Mary was beginning to be wan with fatigue. A peaceful weariness like a downy pillow made her thoughts float.

In this moment of absolute bliss, this solid moment of extreme happiness, four distinctly unique _(albeit, one still undeveloped)_ personalities intertwined. She could bet none of them, herself included, had ever experienced anything like this before. How far they each had come! Their journeys through life's hardships and human frailties led them to each other. Despite being social outcasts for significant and defining portions of their lives, everything else seemed forgotten in this one solitary instant. All past woes were supplanted by the best that life has to offer: love, abiding affection, hope, and renewal.

Yet, in the bottom of her heart, Mary was extremely aware life offered no guarantees from their darkest fears of losing it all.

As she closed her eyes on the scene of her elated family at the height of complete happiness, she tried to deflect the sense of foreboding that troubled her. Her intuition was clamoring like an alarm, tolling the bell with a distressing foreknowledge that they were on the threshold of change. There were great challenges ahead for this odd company of unlikely loving friends, misfits for their genius, addictions, and past deeds. Life was cruel. It could only go down from here, and she knew for certain, if that happened, it would be devastating!

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P.S. No happy endings here! Predictions for Season 4 include "a darker climax" and "devastating plan," to quote Moffat and Gatiss. Time will tell.

I welcome your thoughts and feedback on how my assumptions about the future of our dear companions compare with yours. Don't be shy. This is what makes fanfiction fun!

*Reference is to my other fanfictions: _Missing in Action_, _Action in Missing_, and _Too Much To Ask_.


	4. Chapter 4: Thresholds of Trust

**Chapter 4: THRESHOLDS OF TRUST**

**_This chapter, based on the BBC Sherlock series, examines the incidents in Season Three's His Last Vow and its consequences, especially with regards to John Watson's trust issues with Sherlock and Mary. (Of course, all disclaimers about not owning Sherlock apply.)_**

_My greatest thanks go to an Angel of a Beta, englishtutor, who provided her Beta expertise during a hectic holiday season!_

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><p>"I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you."<br>― Friedrich Nietzsche

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><p>Mother and child were sleeping comfortably in maternity when John and Sherlock left.<p>

Eyelids drooping, John wisely accepted Sherlock's offer to be driven home in the Watson's 4-door Audi hatchback. Although it was only midday, he was asleep well before they arrived, and awoke with a start hours later in his own bed, fully clothed, with little memory of how he got there. It was nighttime, darkness had settled, the illuminated bedside clock read 11.02. A vague recollection of Sherlock helping him through the front door and directing him toward the bedroom assured the doctor he hadn't been carried. However, had it been necessary, he might not have objected. So much had happened since returning home from the Tube derailment* and finding Mary in early labor.* After more than 36 hours on an adrenaline high, his mind and body were consumed by utter exhaustion.

Lifting his head off the pillow, John listened to the customary sounds of their home. Hearing nothing unusual, he tossed his arms behind his head, blinked to clear his mind, and stared up at the ceiling, letting his private thoughts settle for the first time in several days.

Hours ago, John had finally become a father, Mary now a mother. The birth of their precious infant daughter was about to change his life significantly (once again) in ways he could not predict. He could only hope he would never let her down… they had a lifetime ahead.

"…_never let you down … a lifetime to prove that."_

The unsettling echo of this sentiment, expressed approximately nine months earlier by his Best Man at the wedding, still resonated with John. Closing his eyes, he listened again, the impact not diminished by time: _"…__so know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved__—__in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."_

John had been so moved by these words—his best friend's unmasked truth—that he leapt up to embrace Sherlock openly, displaying brotherly affection that compelled their guests to dab their own eyes and applaud. John remembered his heart had been full, brimming with gratitude and love, his eyes glistening with rare emotional release. He never suspected that the two people who loved him most in all this world, whom he loved reciprocally in equal measure, would nearly break his heart in two. He couldn't help feeling his trust was betrayed.

How quickly it all changed—three lives torn asunder by one unforgiveable bullet.

While attempting to assassinate Magnussen, Mary shot Sherlock instead; in that same instant, John nearly lost his best friend and beloved wife. So intertwined was John's marriage to Sherlock's recovery (especially when John learned his wife had fired the gun), that if Sherlock had died as a result, it would have been unthinkable to stay married to his friend's murderer. Their innocent baby—the one the proud father held in his arms hours ago—would have been born betwixt the inconsolable confusion of irreconcilable parents.

Wincing away from the painful thought, John squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered.

And then there was that outside possibility that if Sherlock had died before he disclosed the truth, John would never have known about A.G.R.A. Who would have suspected _Mary_? No one! Might blissful ignorance about his marriage to a liar hiding her abysmal secrets have been better?

Eyes wide open again, John studied the airspace above his head, as if tangible answers were hovering there. Like the ceiling in the darkness, however, everything was a blank.

Knowing was ultimately better, he realized. It just hadn't been easy to live with the daily heartache of loving and not believing those he trusted—yes, despite the contradictions of not _believing_ them, he _trusted_ them both with his life. However, regardless of the challenges he faced, John had always lived by a code of integrity that neither Sherlock nor Mary seemed to share. He could live with himself only if he continued to live by this code.

Not that their lives have been perfect since, but the married couple's relationship was improving after John and Mary had exchanged loving hugs, forgiven past sins, and tried to make realistic amends as they stood before the wood-burning fireplace in the sitting room of the Holmes' cottage.

_"__All this does not mean that I'm not still basically pissed off with you." _He had tenderly whispered in her ear.

_"__I know, I know." _Desperately missing his embrace, Mary circled her arms around John, nodding contritely over his shoulder as she tried to stem her tears.

_"__I am very pissed off, and it will come out now and then." _Absorbing her touch, her smell, her sound the tighter he clutched her, John's voice grew huskier with emotions.

_"__I know, I know, I know." _She sniffled swallowing her sobs.

For now, the euphoria of welcoming one's own child in the world made it easy to forget, at least temporarily, the wounds that still needed healing. Indeed, their threshold for all sorts of pain had been tested over the past months and they were acquiring great endurance.

Unbidden, suddenly John's thoughts turned to another pivotal threshold since Sherlock's fall that tested not only his endurance for pain, but his ability to trust.

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Three pairs of heavy feet, returning from the bolt-hole of Leinster Gardens, climbed the seventeen steps to 221B that distressful night.

As John, Mary, and Sherlock convened in the sitting room to settle "a domestic" (that to John seemed impossible to resolve), Sherlock rested against the threshold between room and staircase, quietly laboring to stabilize his breathing. His week-old chest wound had begun bleeding internally, and he realized, without the benefit of morphine to deaden the agonizing physical pain, his time of consciousness—hopefully not his life—was limited to the eight minutes until the ambulance arrived.

The Watsons also were in their own spheres of pain; John fought through baffling emotions, blindsided by a broken trust, and too blinded by his broken heart to observe his friend's worsening condition; and Mary, psychologically terrorized by the truth of her resurrected past, inwardly cowered before the condemnation of the man she loved beyond reason.

In that defining moment they were about to address a deception—a deception John had never seen coming—which took him down even worse than the wartime assault that shattered his left shoulder, incapacitated his dominant hand, and ruined his career as a surgeon. The revelation of Mary's horrible truth, concealed in the lie of her identity, blasted to smithereens his ability to trust.

Overwrought, John had begun to realize his so-called "trust issues" were not because he hadn't been able to trust, but because he trusted the _wrong _people so _completely_.

He _had_ been warned many times about Sherlock. John recognized the consulting detective worked on many levels to puzzle out the veracity of a case, often resorting to methods of deceit and pretense during the extraction of the truth. Whether or not he approved, John learned to understand the strategy and logic that guided the genius' single-minded dedication to _The Work_. And despite all advisories against trusting Sherlock (Mycroft was the most vocal), John chose to overlook the method, and preferred to see _and_ trust the astounding man he believed was hidden behind the masquerades.

However, John had not been warned about Mary! Never in a million years had John suspected his loving wife would surpass Sherlock in fakery!

What kind of people did he choose to befriend? What kind of person was he?

That night in the flat, the brilliant detective—his best friend—gave him a numbing answer:

_"__John! You are addicted to a certain lifestyle…," _Sherlock struggled to speak, carefully inhaling against his bruised ribcage, so he would have enough breath to continue uninterrupted._ "You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people …." _The baritone grew winded quickly; even so, the detective drew his conclusion with a thoughtful tenderness_, "So is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"_

_"__But she wasn't supposed to be like that!" _Through excruciating heartache and tears, John fumbled for an understanding, his voice hoarse and choking_, "Why was she like that?" _Still, he turned to the wisest man he knew, expecting yet again to trust and believe the self-declared high-functioning sociopath for answers that would help him survive his grief.

_"__Because you chose her," _Sherlock answered frankly in all kindness.

With that answer, John had erupted in fury and kicked over a chair, startling Mrs. Hudson who fled the flat; otherwise, he did no harm. Instead, within a short time, he heeded his friend's council for calm, swallowed his rage, sat Mary down like a client, and began _The Work_ to get past the crisis.

Ever since, John wondered: had Sherlock been right? Well, maybe not completely. Perhaps, after his service as an army surgeon, combating death on the battlefield, he _had _developed a craving for a more stimulating "lifestyle," but John knew at heart he was NOT a violent man.

If he were, that night of painful revelations at 221B might have ended in homicide, a double homicide. John had been thoroughly enraged about his lying wife, infuriated yet again by the dissolution of credibility in someone he loved, and although he had made verbal threats in the heat of the moment against Sherlock (demanding the detective "shut up" and not interfere in his domestic with Mary), John never raised a fist against his persistent friend. Sherlock must have known this about John, which is why the detective ignored each threat and exposed, with unbearable conviction, how John's life-choices supported Sherlock's argument.

Most people who were provoked by Sherlock's obnoxious delving into their private lives or hearing the deducting genius expose their meaningful secrets with flippant abandon, responded by hurling back insults, furious threats, and occasionally menacing blows, which Sherlock deftly dodged, sometimes with John's help, sometimes without.

Yet, John had always managed to react differently when Sherlock was caught in the maelstrom of his insufferable tantrums. Instead of lashing back, like most people, if Sherlock pushed too hard, the doctor walked away, letting his own temper cool, until he could reasonably face or defend the facts as they were presented to him. (There was that one exception when Sherlock came back from the dead; John had understandably lost his reason.) By the time he returned, Sherlock seemed better behaved—often feigning a nonchalance that John interpreted as Holmesian contrition. More often than not, John had to be satisfied that this would be the best "apology" Sherlock could give.

At 221B, John couldn't walk away from the lying woman he married nor Sherlock's needling urgency to work through the shock; instead he stopped, listened, and learned. Addicted or not to that "certain lifestyle," John did not kill that night: there was no murder in his heart.

How did that compare to his assassin wife and even Sherlock himself?

With less provocation, Mary calculated shooting Sherlock would be a temporary solution to the bigger problem of Magnussen. She did not intend murder, but her loving, tender heart must have had an unfathomable blind spot to have taken Sherlock out so purposefully. Sherlock seemed to understand, however, and offered her his absolute forgiveness, opening the way toward reconciliation between John and Mary.

Another blind spot? On Christmas day in Appledore Sherlock committed cold-blooded murder because (John initially thought) the genius had been outsmarted by the despicable mastermind and blackmailer Magnussen. With devastating disbelief, John had witnessed the horror of that moment, watching in terror as ground forces rushed with guns drawn and laser sights targeting Sherlock, covering the pale face with swirling red dots.

_"__Get away from me, John!"_ Sherlock shouted protectively over his shoulder, arms raised in surrender behind his head. _"__Stay well back!"_

"_Christ_, Sherlock!" Instinctively John threw his arms up in surrender, his hands trembling as they flanked his head, his heart thudding high in his throat, whilst his mind raced forward imagining the worst: rapid reports of constant gunfire, Sherlock riddled with a barrage of bullets, his dearest friend twitching from the impact, then falling to the ground, lifeless and gone forever.

_Noooooo!_ In the next instant, John realized he was _not _imagining Mycroft's commanding voice frantically shouting, _"Stand fire! Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!" _filtered through the microphone from the hovering helicopter. John exhaled with hope as Mycroft demanded and received obedience, keeping the assault teams under control.

Despair replaced the momentary relief when John realized the magnitude of Sherlock's act. "_Oh,_ _Christ!_ _Sherlock."_ John lamented aloud with awful dread in his voice, his eyes beseeching Sherlock for an explanation. _Why? Why would you murder in cold blood? __You came back humanized, reformed and adjusted to society, demonstrating a caring sentimental side. Was it all an act? Has something caused you to snap? What made Magnussen so dangerous, you needed to kill him? You chose to act as judge, jury, and executioner before a score of witnesses? Why, my friend? Why?_

Over the roar of the helicopter and the rush of blood in his own ears, John discerned Sherlock's voice with amazing clarity:

_"__Give my love to Mary."_ With arms still above his head in surrender, Sherlock had turned toward his best friend, "_Tell her she's safe now."_

_My God!_ The weight of Sherlock's words was like a crushing blow. _You did this for Mary? No, no, no, no, no, you can't have done this for her, for us…for me? Not for me! You did this for me? You sacrificed your future, your life, everything for me… for us?_

**_"_****_Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." _**Those words, resonating in the doctor's heart, answered his "why." John heaved great breaths as if the wind had been knocked out of him, at the same time recalling in a rush Sherlock's "first and last vow" announced at their wedding: "_whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you."_

John stood dazed by the painful revelation, seeing it all so clearly at last.

_When they arrived at Appledore, John and Sherlock were both startled to discover that Magnussen's stronghold of information was contained not within actual vaults, but within the businessman's own living brain. There could be no trade-off of information to save Mary from Magnussen's brutality. Stunned, Sherlock stood silent, unable to answer John's question, "__Sherlock, do we have a plan?__" __Obviously he had none. All seemed hopeless._

No more hopeless than watching his friend sink to his knees before the MI-5 marksmen, whilst gusts from the helicopter had swirled Sherlock's raven curls in a frantic dance above his head. John had groaned inwardly, grief stricken. In that moment, he fully understood the consulting detective's outrageous decision.

_Having __thoroughly underestimated Magnussen, along with the secrets of Appledore, Sherlock Holmes was __taking full blame for his appalling error in judgment. __Perceiving the Watsons were still in great danger from a living man who remembered all things sinister, the consulting detective followed the logic __of Mary's original plan and took the only remaining chance __to close forever the blackmailing Mind Palace of their greatest adversary. To save John before it was too late, Sherlock shot Magnussen._

To save Sherlock before it was too late, John shot the cabbie. There was no murderous forethought in John's mind at the time. Did that make it justified? Upon assessing the situation, John knew no other choice to thwart the imminent threat and responded with deadly force as his training required; or should he had held his fire and watch Sherlock die?

Was there any real difference in Sherlock's self-sacrificing motivation to kill Magnussen? Did the consulting detective's amoral act through deliberate execution, make Sherlock more repellant, more dangerous to society? Had the thin veil of social propriety finally dropped to expose the real and frightening face of an eccentric maniac, given to God complexes?

Abhorrent and repellant as this act was by a man who publically professed to be a sociopath, John had never and would never give up on his faith in Sherlock, who worked "on the side of angels," even if the mastermind couldn't claim to be one. That trust in his best friend was good enough for John.

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In the Watson's unilluminated living room, Sherlock reclined on the sofa, his eyes closed, fingers tented under his chin when John, contemplating a cup of tea and a follow-up call to hospital, made the surprising discovery.

_Huh? What!_ John suppressed a startled shout and quickly managed his shock, thankful he wasn't already holding a hot teacup. "Sherlock?" With the window drapes left open, the street lights infiltrated the sheer curtains, brightening portions of the room for John to identify clearly, without turning on the electricity, the man on his couch.

"Sherlock?" He repeated. Receiving no answer, John leaned closer over the supine figure, squinted into the shadows, and spoke softly. "Asleep?"

"Not." The deep baritone voice was clear and precise, but the eyes remained closed. "Thinking."

"Hmmm, okay." John straightened up and silently scanned the dim room for other possible occupants.

"No one else. Just us." Sherlock assured him; his eyes still remained tightly closed.

Brows furrowed in amazement, John shot a look back at the reclining man. _He must have peeked when I turned?_ John never found it assuring when it appeared that Sherlock could read his mind. "Right! Well…Didn't expect to see you…nor anybody else here for that matter…at this hour. It's nearly five before midnight. Why didn't you go home after you dropped me off?"

"Why would I go home? Don't you want a ride back?" The thinking man hadn't moved a muscle, but from where John stood in the unlit room, he saw the detective's lips moving.

Since living in the suburbs, John had learned to drive and was quite good at it. "Perfectly capable of driving myself." His voice dropped two registers defensively.

"Didn't say you weren't. But truth be told, you _weren't_ this afternoon when I took you home."

"I'm rested now. Anyway, might not be a good time to return. Late hour and all. Thought I'd ring them up first before I…." John stopped in mid explanation and shook his head, still puzzled by the consulting detective's unusual lengthy stay. "Hang on. Why _are_ you here? Not that I have any objections, but…."

"Sounds like you're objecting." Sherlock opened one discerning eye toward the silhouette of his friend standing in the center of the living room.

"No, just surprised."

"What surprises you?" Head titled to the doctor, both eyes were now focused on John's face.

"Dunno." John averted his own eyes with a shrug and dropped his gaze to his feet. "That you had enough _human sentiment_ for a week or two and would be happy to retreat into the logical challenges of your Work?" The long pause that followed, forced him to look up.

Sherlock's expression was inscrutable, but his eyes locked onto John's. "You _are_ my work."

"Erm, how's that?" John cleared his throat, simultaneously embarrassed and honored by Sherlock's devotion. In the name of their enduring friendship, the brilliant genius had made serious self-sacrifices on John's behalf, beginning most significantly with the faked suicide more than two years ago, cheating death yet again _for real_, forgiving Mary, and culminating with the execution of Magnussen. Yet, the doctor was deeply conscious of a greater responsibility to ensure that his obsessive friend didn't go to any more dangerous extremes. Sherlock needed _John's _protection just as much as John needed Sherlock's.

"Protecting your family is paramount." In one fluid motion, Sherlock tossed his long legs off the couch, sat up, and ruffled his hair.

"What?" Unnerved by a sudden chill, John stifled a shudder. Alert and on guard, he sought clarification. "From what?"

"There is a possibility that with all that has happened, including the joyous birth of your daughter, the Watson family may have drawn too much attention for its own good …."

"Does this have anything to do with Mary? Is she in danger?" With a sinking feeling, John's thoughts accelerated, realizing that his wife's secret past would have them constantly looking over their shoulders. John clenched his fists, steeling himself inwardly for disturbing news, although no longer expecting to be surprised by anything he might hear. He had given up believing he truly knew the people he loved.

"Danger? Not actually for your _Mary Watson_, but danger exists for the woman she was before."

John bowed his head and paced in tight circles, fighting turmoil he had long kept bottled. "Did you always know?" Head still downcast, he slid his eyes toward Sherlock with a sidelong glance.

"Know what?' Sherlock stood slowly, keeping his expression impassive as he stepped closer to his friend.

"About who she was, _really_ was?" John straightened his shoulders as if standing at attention and squarely faced the consulting detective.

The question hung in the air between them.

"Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting," Sherlock replied with a sad smile.

John closed his eyes tightly as the memory that haunted him returned in that instant:

_"__So that's what you are. An assassin. How could I not see that?"_

_"__You did see that, and you married me, because he's right. It's what you like."_

"John," Sherlock's gentle voice pulled him from his pain. "Focus on the present, and the future. Mary Watson, your wife, the mother of your child, is worth keeping in your life."

"Then answer me this," John found himself arguing heatedly. "Why did you say you _spoke for_ Mary…that … 'we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.' Why, Sherlock? " Growling like a dog with a bone in his teeth, John shook his head. "Why would you include the _both_ of you in that promise of a lifetime when it couldn't be true…?"

Even in the dim light, John saw the truth in Sherlock's face.

"You didn't know!" John opened his eyes wide in an epiphany. "You were fooled too!"

"An enigma of a woman, your Mary," Sherlock nodded with respect, his smile reflecting in his pale grey eyes. "Her genuine love for you was the overwhelming truth I saw immediately and constantly after. Even during our initial meeting, it eclipsed all other facets. Perhaps, she blindsided us both with her charm and lively nature, whilst concealing her darkest secrets extremely well. Yet, on each encounter, I perceived and trusted how deeply she cared for you. And that was what mattered to me."

"Hmmmm." Narrowing his eyes, John blinked quickly to fend off welling tears, and turned away. Conflicting emotions troubled him whenever he remembered the duplicity of his beloved wife.

"What we do in this world is a matter of no consequence." Sherlock's words filled the void John's speechlessness left. "The question is what can we make people believe we have done? For Mary to get beyond her past, what can we make people believe about her? That must be our work."

"Our work?"

"My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. And so is yours and Mary's. Someone as adept as she, who knows a skip code, who is intelligent and savvy, is not going to settle for domesticity for long. She is an amazing asset you have had the good fortune to marry. With her, _The Work_ is not done, the game need not be over. It might be true that I didn't thoroughly know the truth of my words, but with what we do know now, perhaps we will have a lifetime to prove it."

"And what about our daughter?" John could not conceive such innocence would thrive in their lifestyle.

"Well, children are known to be resilient."

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no! No one is putting our blameless child in jeopardy!" John's face flushed with paternal determination that proved to Sherlock the child would be well guarded by a competent father.

"You questioned why I am here. I am here for you, John, because what you want in life are simple things; unfortunately they are not so simple for the kind of people we are. The distractions of pregnancy and the excitement of birth are over. What might happen next may be the last thing we expect, and whatever it takes, we must be ready to fend against devastating loss. It's time we talk."

"Why are you doing all this, Sherlock?

The consulting detective went to the window to consider his answer before responding. With his back toward John, he spoke as if from a distance. "You must have surmised, John, that in my personal opinion, _The Woman_ eclipsed and predominated the whole of her gender." For the briefest moment, the baritone voice faltered, and John keenly felt his friend's loneliness. Recovering quickly, however, the voice strengthened with resolve. "By association, I perceive the same is true for you with regard to Mary. Whilst I have chosen to maintain a safe distance from such distractions for the sake of my work, you do not have the same constraints, nor should you. Your talents reside in your humanity. You are at your best when you demonstrate love for others; and when you are at your best, my friend, I benefit too. You are vital to my success."

"But there is another reason," Sherlock slowly turned toward John with a warm smile. "Because, the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing once told me: 'friends protect each other.'"

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*Reference is to my other fanfictions: _Missing in Action_, _Action in Missing_, and _Too Much To Ask_.

Post Script: During the course of composing this fanfiction, I acknowledge the great assistance of the wonderful and brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan.


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